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I was alone.
Left to fend for myself with nothing but my mouth and my own two fists.
I shook my head and kept walking toward the kids.
What the fuck was I doing here?
The kids were setting up the kickstand at what I’m assumed was the fifty-yard line. It was hard to tell since there weren’t any markings anywhere. I stood back, watching as they bossed each other around.
Someone needed to get out here and cut this damn grass and at least set up markers along the field. I didn’t know how to teach kids in these conditions.
Eventually, they started their version of football. I saw the kid from earlier walk away and hang on the fence. He was the one I had told to get lost. The one that Julie had been protective about. The one that had sent her over the edge. This kid meant a lot to her.
I sauntered over to him. He had dropped to the ground and was picking through weeds.
“Hey, do you know how to throw the ball?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me.
I took a knee in front of him. “Listen about earlier … I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
His eyes popped up. “Miss Bristow says we can’t say that word.”
“Oh right.” I rubbed the back of my head. “Sorry I was a jerk. That better? Am I allowed to say jerk?”
He nodded.
“Looks like they already have a game started over there. Want to try a few passes with me?” I offered.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess so.”
I jogged over to the mesh bag full of peeling leather soccer and footballs. I grabbed the one that was the least banged up and handed it to Hunter.
“I’ll run long and you throw it. Just put your whole body into it. Got it?”
He looked at the ball in his hands as if I had handed him a bag of candy. I’d seen that look before.
I took off in the opposite direction. It had been a long time since I had been on this end of a throw. I waited while the boy positioned his fingers on the laces. His chewed his tongue, concentrating on what his move was going to be.
“I’m open, Hunter,” I called.
He stepped back and then propelled the ball forward. It spun perfectly, landing against my chest. I gripped it tightly with my swollen fingers and then sent it flying back through the air to him. Kid had one hell of a fucking arm on him.
I gripped the ball and sent it soaring toward him. He caught it effortlessly with a gigantic grin on his face and jogged to my side. I felt like I had apologized and he accepted it in the lost language of men. But to appease the woman inside and to make sure my ass didn’t end up in jail tonight, I figured I better make it official.
“Good catch, man.”
“Thank you.”
“Everything good between us?” I asked.
“Yeah. Definitely,” he replied, kicking up the dry grass at the field's edge.
“Sweet. Go long.”
I backed up a few paces as he darted down the field as fast as he could. After about ten yards he glanced back at me and juked to the left. I sent the ball flying straight to him.
Some kids have to work every day on a certain gift that they want to pursue later in life. They strive every day to make it better, to become stronger, faster, greater.
